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ARMAGEDDON 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 



PANAMA AND OTHER POEMS 

WITH AN ETCHING BY JOSEPH PENNELL 

LYRICS AND DRAMAS 

INCLUDING "THE KING," A TRAGEDY. 

NEW POEMS 

INCLUDING "IOLE," A TRAGEDY IN ONE 
ACT. 

POEMS 

INCLUDING "CHRIST IN HADES" AND 

"MARPESSA." 

PAOLO AND FRANCESCA 
A TRAGEDY IN FOUR ACTS. 

HEROD 

A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS. 

MARPESSA 

ILLUSTRATED BY PHILLIP CONNARD. 

THE NEW INFERNO 
A DRAMATIC POEM. 



ARMAGEDDON 

A MODERN EPIC DRAMA IN A PROLOGUE 
SERIES OF SCENES AND AN EPI- 
LOGUE WRITTEN PARTLY IN 
PROSE AND PARTLY 
IN VERSE 



BY 

STEPHEN PHILLIPS 



NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 

MCMXV 






Copyright, 1915, 
By John Lane Company 



Press of 

J. J. Little & Ives Company 

New York, U.S. A. 



SEP 14 1915 

©CLA411679 



"This war is not only a material, it is also a 
spiritual conflict." — The Prime Minister 
at the Guildhall. 

"This war is a war of Christ against the 
Devil."— The Poet Laureate in The 
Times. 



SYNOPSIS OF SCENES 





PAGE 


PROLOGUE 


In Hell ii 


SCENE I 


Rheims 21 


SCENE n 


An English Orchard 41 


scene in 


Office of Press Bureau in Berlin 51 


SCENE IV 


Cologne 63 


EPILOGUE 


In Hell 89 



CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY 

IMMORTALS 

Satan, The Arck-fiend 

Beelzebub, Inferior only to Satan 

Moloch, Lord of War 

Belial, Lord of Lies 

Rumour 

The Shade of Attila 

The Spirit of Joan of Arc 

MORTALS 

Count von der Trenk, Commander of the Fifth German 

Army Corps in Rheims 
General Murdoch, Commander of the English Advance 

Corps in Cologne 
General Larrier, Commander of the French Army Corps in 

Cologne 
General Leblanc, Commander of the Belgian Advance Corps 

in Cologne 
The Abbe of Rheims 

Herr Weiss, Director of the Berlin Press Bureau 
Charles Rowland, Vicar of Normanton 
Pierre, A French Peasant 

Lady Carteret, a Widow whose son is fighting at the Front 
Ethel Millard, Betrothed to the Son 
Elsa, Daughter of the Burgomaster of Cologne 
Clothilde, a Belgian Girl 
Marie, a French Peasant Girl 

An English Officer — German Officers — Orderlies — 
Reporters — etc. etc. 



PROLOGUE 



IN HELL 



ARMAGEDDON 

The War is hatched. The Shade of Atttta is 
despatched from Hell to Earth. 
The Scene is a dark region of rock and sand with 
shapes and shadows dimly discovered. In cen- 
tre, upstage, a shadowy throne, on which 
Satan is sitting, wearing a crown of ashes. As 
the curtain rises shadowy arms are uplifted as 
in appeal. Beelzebub rises to speak. 

Beelzebub. How long, O Satan, in this outer 

gloom 

Shall we, who shook the firmament with war, 

Impotent, ineffectually bide? 

Indolent malice is intolerable, 

Even as that ashen crown upon Thy brow ! 

Hark ! How Thy legions murmur in the dusk ! 

They doubt Thy leading, question Thy resolve. 

ii 



12 ARMAGEDDON 

In action is the bread of mutiny ! 
And to recover from that old defeat 
We have had time, it seems, and time enough. 
Proclaim some fresh adventure, that may rouse 
And rally our prone armies ! Let them hear 
The shattering clangour of the trump of Hell, 
Pealing a resurrection from this grave ! 
Satan. Spirit, to me alone inferior, 
I am not to be moved by mutiny. 
No menace I regard but my own mind. 
Too long indeed we languish in the dusk; 
And dark this desert only from our doubt, 
Heavy this night only from our dismay; 
These fruitless antres and these dunes of sand, 
This country round us, we ourselves conceived. 
You ask what fresh adventure I propose? 
The Earth is but half won, a minor star, 
But yet a star not quite contemptible. 
Some countries Christian, here or there a king, 
In spiritual skirmish have we captured, 



ARMAGEDDON 13 

But the main field and region of grand war 
Disputed lies, an indecisive plain. 
The Earth is but half won, though I myself, 
To achieve our purpose there, did not disdain 
To crawl upon the belly of a snake. 
Where Craft hath failed us, now let Force prevail ! 
For Eden now let Europe make amends! 
Hurl we a massive Fury on the world 
With engines and artilleries of Hell, 
With wail of women and cities thundered down, 
Until beneath the bellowing, blind world-blow 
Justice shall reel, Love, Pity, and mankind 
Shall build to Force, not Faith, temples afresh. 
Here is Thy sting, O Hell, Thy Victory here ! 
Surely our end approaches, though what end 
It be we know not ; this at least we know, 
Our time is short, with Fury be it filled ! 
Moloch. O Master, with what glee these words I 
hear, 
I, Lord of War! Of late my mind misgives, 



14 ARMAGEDDON 

A mast unwholesome, steamy mildness taints 

The air; a sickly-stealing, vaporous calm, 

Pernicious to the soul if long allowed. 

Now, by Thy leave such havoc I intend 

As never yet encumbered battle-plain. 

Where thousands have but teased this primal thirst, 

Millions shall now the brimming cup supply 

In multitudinous, unimagined shock! 

Rise, Madness ! Mother that didst bring me forth 

In pangs before the making of the world, 

While Famine, like a midwife, eased thy throes. 

Arise now, Massacre ! Thou favourite daughter, 

Got in adultery 'neath a moody moon; 

Awaken to the smell of infant-blood! 

What matter now the cause so ye be loosed? 

Here have I space at last and boundless field ! 

Belial, O Lords, I scarcely know, if now I rise 
In order, to address this full conclave, 
I, Lord of Lies; nor would I seem to slight 
The ancient, grand prerogative of Force. 



ARMAGEDDON 15 

Splendid is Force, but solitary falls 
And self-defeated, unrelieved by lies, 
And therefore I submit, I play my part, 
For only here in Hell I speak the truth. 
With deference I propose that I convey 
To Earth my swollen, bilious Bureau, 
To gloze defeat, or magnify success, 
Doling to each land its particular lie. 
Great Landlord, I complain not, but of late 
I feel through crevices a draught of truth. 
If any deem that I too lightly speak 
In such assembly, and appear to jest, 
Remember, in losing humour we lose all ; 
The thought provokes a spiritual sweat, 
We should be then no better than — our betters. 
Our kingdom is to laugh, as theirs to love, 
We live by lightnings, they by steady light. 
Again then I submit, I play my part. 

Satan. O son, whom of my sons I like the least, 
Born me by Prophecy, a mistress merely, 



16 ARMAGEDDON 

Still I perceive thy necessary part. 
Dole to each land the lie that it deserves, 
But in the Teuton the grand lie instil. 
Music I love not, but confess to like 
The pleasant humming of a prosperous lie. 

Rumour. I rise but to retail a wide report ; 
An island floats upon the western wave, 
Whose people never yet have bowed to Force 
And will not now ; a stubborn brood and free, 
They sway the varying oceans of the Earth, 
And that which was but island and remote 
Ne'er sees the setting sun go down on her. 
She against Force may bring into the field 
The turbaned East and her sea-sundered sons. 
Her most in our attempt we have to fear. 
I give this as report, though unconfirmed. 

Belial. I am content that this report go forth, 
But hold myself no way responsible. 

Satan. War is approved; not yet the means of 
war. 



ARMAGEDDON 17 

Since upon mortal men we launch this wrath, 
Then must we use a mortal instrument. 
Whom better then, than one who died, yet lives, 
Although in sanguinary slumber bound, 
Can we employ? Arise then — Attila! 
Shake from thine eyes the long, infernal sleep! 
Or hast thou lost in dream the thirst of blood? 
Awake ! A wider carnage waits thee now ! 

The Shade of Attila. For that long sleep the 
drier are my lips. 

Satan. Attila, I despatch thee back to Earth, 
And with more horrid opportunity. 
The field to thee familiar — Chalons-Plain. 
I stood behind thee in thy former rage, 
And now behind thee stand in rage more vast. 
Once hadst thou joy in arrow and in axe, 
But now exult in engines that can belch 
Armies away, and lay high cities flat; 
Labouring art abolish, and erase 
With one loud moment silent centuries ! 



18 ARMAGEDDON 

Despatch thee then, and enter into him 

To whom I send thee as a house prepared. 

Through him thy fury work, through him destroy, 

While he imagines all the havoc his. 

Thou scourge of God, be now the lash of Hell ! 

Spirit athirst to Earth! And drink thy fill! 

[Attila, after making reverence, rushes 
upward, earthward. There is a pause; 
then from above is heard the wail of 
women and children. 

Satan. [Rising J\ A sea is in the caverns of my 
mind. 
Be every Hell unlocked, each Fury loosed, 
Pillage and Rape unleashed upon the scent ! 
For by that splendour wherefrom I was thrown, 
And by this thunderstroke on me unhealed, 
Again I challenge Heaven, the stake a star ! 
War to the Earth then ! Unimagined War ! 

Curtain 






SCENE I 



RHEIMS 



Scene I. — A room in a French Chateau on the 
heights overlooking Rheims. General von der 
Trenk, commander of the fifth German Army 
Corps, is sitting at a table covered with papers, 
a revolver lying beside him. On the table are 
glasses and the floor is strewn with champagne 
bottles, some broken. At the back the spire of 
Rheims cathedral is seen, and from time to time 
a flame spurts up from the town below. Ger- 
man officers, etc., are sitting or standing around 
the General. An orderly fills the general 's 
glass, and the glasses of the others. A lieu- 
tenant enters and salutes. 

Trenk. Well, then? 

Lieutenant. I have to report, Sir, that our 
spies 

21 



22 ARMAGEDDON 

Trenk. Spies? We have no spies. The enemy 

spies, we reconnoitre. 

[Laughter. 

Lieutenant. That our agents, dressed, some as 
labourers, others as old peasant women 

Trenk. Good so. 

Lieutenant. Report that the enemy may retreat 
westward, if by so doing they may save the Cathe- 
dral. 

They also report the possession by the enemy of a 
three inch shell, pattern unknown, which on ex- 
plosion will instantly asphyxiate all living things 
within four hundred yards, so that in a room which 
has been hit, [gesture'] you shall find a dead man, 
still standing at aim, or another a glass at his lips, 

lifeless. 

[Trenk puts down his glass. 

The death, so caused, they say is painless. 

Trenk. So; and that is something. 

They say nothing of a French force operating on 

our right? 



ARMAGEDDON 23 

Lieutenant. Nothing, Sir. 

[Trenk dismisses Lieutenant who retires 
upstage. 

Trenk. [Picking up revolver at his side, to 
orderly J] Unloaded, what? 

Orderly. Sir, I 

Trenk. [With gesture.] Load! Set it here! 

Orderly. Sir, shall I open the door? I hear a 
dog scratching on it. 

Trenk. No, 'tis my servant. He must not* knock, 
he merely scratches like a dog. Give him this 
paper, I never speak to servants. 

[He spits on paper before passing it to Orderly. 

That shell, eh ? Is it treachery ? Only a German 
brain could have invented that shell. 

[Enter Captain. 

Captain. Sir, I come for instructions. The 
Cathedral 

Trenk. Well, what of it? 



24 ARMAGEDDON 

Captain. It still stands, though the city itself is 
in flames. Are we to train our guns on it? 

Trenk. But of course. Remember! Always 
thorough ! 

Captain. They fly the Red Cross flag from it. 

Trenk. That gives a good mark, eh ? 

[Laughter. 

Captain. These then are my instructions? 

Trenk. There was no need to ask them, and, 
besides, did they not foil us before Paris? Well 
then, we take what revenge comes to hand. 

[He drinks. 

The Red Cross Flag? What is that to us more 
than a treaty? The one a rag of cotton, the other 
a scrap of paper. The laws of war? 

[Striking his fist on the table. 

Herrgottsakrament ! We make them as we march ! 

[Exit Captain. 

Now bring in this fellow that you have caught. 



ARMAGEDDON 25 

[A sign is made to those outside, while 
Trenk fills a fresh glass of cham- 
pagne. Enter Uhlan Officer and two 
Uhlans, bringing in a young French- 
man. 
Trenk. Let him stand there, where he can see 
me. [Curls moustache. 

Officer. Sir, we caught this fellow lurking 
outside the walls after no good. He will tell us 
nothing, so we have brought him here where he will 
be made to speak. 

Trenk. Now, fellow, does the main French force 
intend retreat, or no? You can tell us. 
Prisoner. I will not. 

Officer. [Striking Prisoner on cheek.'] Salute the 
General. 
Prisoner. I will only salute a French officer. 

[Officer again slaps him on the face. The 
Prisoner quivers with rage, but is 
silent. 



26 ARMAGEDDON 

Trenk. What of another force to the westward? 
Where are they? 

Prisoner. I cannot tell, sir. 

Trenk. [Sipping wine and curling moustache.] 
Now understand, you dog, we are here to bring you 
our Kultur. If you will not take it with a spoon, 
you must take it from the shell. It must be battered 
into you. You understand that ? What ? 

Prisoner. I understand, sir. 

Trenk. Is this retreat of the French meant or 
not ? Answer ! or you'll be shot as a spy. 

Prisoner. I am no spy, sir. 

Trenk. [Banging fist on the table.] I say you are 
a spy — therefore you are one ! Are you married ? 

Prisoner. Not yet, sir, but I hope to be shortly. 

Trenk. Well then, you can leave at once, a free 
man, if you will tell me what I want to know. 
Think of— her! 

Prisoner. I will not speak. 

Trenk. Not even to go back to her ? Eh ? 



ARMAGEDDON 27 

Prisoner. No ! 

Trenk. So ! — I give you two minutes to decide. 
And then 

[Trenk takes out watch, finishes glass; 
another bottle is uncorked; there is a 
burst of Home at the back from below. 

Prisoner. I am ready, sir. I will die. 
Trenk. Ass ! Take him away ! 

[They bandage his eyes and are taking him 
off, when two Soldiers enter hurriedly, 
dragging a Girl between them. 

Soldier. [Saluting.'] Sir, here is this fellow's 
sweetheart. We found her asking for news of him. 

Trenk. Ah, but this is better. Put the fellow 
back, and the girl there opposite. Unbandage his 
eyes and let him see her. Now we shall have it ! 

Girl. [Starting forward.] Pierre ! 

Trenk. Good ! Now we shall see. Now, Mam'- 
selle, is this your sweetheart? 



28 ARMAGEDDON 

Girl. [Hesitating.] Yes, sir. 

Trenk. And you are shortly to be married? 

Girl. We had hoped 

Trenk. Good so — 

[Chucking her under the chin. 

Now, little one, 'tis for you to decide whether he 
lives, or whether — he's shot. 

Your brave French Army, where would you say 
then they are now ? — Look at him and tell us. 

Girl. Oh, if it is to save 

Prisoner. Marie, I forbid you to speak. 

Trenk. Lie down, dog! 

[To Girl.] You have but to tell us this and go 
away together — to be married. If you refuse 

Girl. Pierre, let me speak ! 

Prisoner. Are you French? 

Trenk. [To Prisoner.] Once more, you then. 
Look well at your sweetheart. Is she not pretty, 
and, alas, she loves you. Now if you will not speak 
— tell us all — not only shall you be shot, but she 



ARMAGEDDON 29 

Prisoner. What? 

Trenk. I shall myself endeavour to take your 
place. I have conceived something of a fancy for 
your Marie; and in time of war — eh? 

Prisoner. [Springing towards Trenk.] Sacre ! 

[Soldiers seize him. 

Trenk. [Putting his arm round Girl.] Once 
more then? 

Prisoner. No, for France ! 

Trenk. And you, my dolly? 

Girl. No, for Pierre! 

Trenk. Take him off! But stay, he shall kiss 
her once. 

[To Girl.] Kiss him ! 

[Marie goes to Pierre, whom she kisses. 

Was that kiss sweet, eh ? It need not be the last, 

if 

[Pierre remains silent and at a sign is 
taken off. 



30 ARMAGEDDON 

You see you could have saved him by speaking, 
but now 

Girl. He told me to be dumb and I was dumb. 
Ah, do not part us even now; shoot me with him. 
If he is a spy, then so am I. 

Trenk. Ah no, little one, I have something better 
for you. You there ! [Signing to Orderly.] Con- 
duct mam'selle to my room ; but first she must drink 
a glass with me. 

[He fills and hands her a glass. A shot 
rings out and she flings the glass in his 
face. 

Ah, now, my wild-cat, see how you have stained 
this uniform. Ah, but you must pay for this with 
a kiss. 

[He starts forward to embrace her, but she, 
snatching his revolver from the table, 
shoots herself, falling in the arms of 
the Orderly. 



ARMAGEDDON 31 

Herrgottsakrament ! You should have stopped 
her. 

Orderly. Sir, she was too quick. 
Trenk. Take her away! 

[He slowly empties glass; as he sets it 
down a Lieutenant enters. 

Lieutenant. Sir, the Abbe of the Cathedral 
asks you to spare him a moment. 
Trenk. So, so. 

[Enter Abbe., white-haired, followed by two 
priests. 

Abbe. Sir, you are the general in command here ? 

Trenk. I am. 

Abb£. General, your guns are trained on our 
Cathedral. One shell has already fallen. 

Trenk. Well? 

Abbe. Sir, I have come to ask you to spare the 
ancient church. 



32 ARMAGEDDON 

Trenk. Old man, war is war. 

Abbe. That I know well. I do not ask for the 
homes of our people, nor even for their lives. I see 
that would be vain ; but I am here to plead for this 
church that holds such memories. 

Trenk. [Laughing.] Ah! You lose your job, 
what? 

Abbe. [Advancing.] Your business, sir, is war, 
but I would ask you 
In the mid-track of ruin to spare these walls. 

Trenk. Priest, you waste breath. 

Abbe. A moment let me speak. 

[Trenk impatiently sits down, taking out 
his watch. 

Trenk. To the point. As war is war, so time 
is time. 

Abbe. If Rheims Cathedral you must batter down, 
You batter no mere mass of masonry: 
You burn the body of an eternal soul. 

[Trenk sighs and looks at watch. 



ARMAGEDDON 33 

They who did build so high they feared not time; 
They feared not man, and now shall man erase 
This thought unchanging in the drift of change; 
This Prayer that ever-rising still abides; 
This Rally of the Soul in days of dross, 
With windows rose-flushed from heroic dawns; 
A Vision frozen, stationary Sigh, 
Time-worn, yet wearying t'ward Eternity. 

Trenk. Less of Eternity and more of time. 

Abbe. To you, a patriot, I appeal by names 
Of Goethe, Schiller and of Beethoven ! 

Trenk. Bah! Dreamers all! 

Abbe. Yet when your country stands 
For final Judgment at the Eternal Bar, 
To whom then will she look ? To you, or these ? 

Trenk. But meanwhile, will these aid us now to 
grasp World-Power ? 

Abbe. Those already World-Power wield. 
Did not your Schiller sing our Joan of Arc, 
Her who is in this cathedral crowned a king? 



34 ARMAGEDDON 

Trenk. And whom you afterwards burnt as a 
witch ? 

Abb£. Then if I cannot move you by these names, 
Think still what this destruction means to us : 
Here for seven hundred years looked down on us 
A nation's dearest Angels and old Knights; 
This shrine for ivy hath our antique hours; 
Here hath the mother brought her first-born child 
To lay him at God's feet; bereaved women 
Have heard a whisper in the glooming nave. 
Oh, can you shell a people's memory? 
Put out a solemn taper of dark France, 
Man, man, do you not fear? 

Trenk. No living thing! 

Abbe. Aye, but the dead? 

Trenk. The dead? They are far off ! 

Abb£. No, but the nearer in that they are dead. 
If we revenge not, yet will God avenge! 

Trenk. No God we fear ! And what revenge is 
yours ? 



ARMAGEDDON 35 

Abbe. [Pointing outside.] Those ruined choirs 

for ever unrestored, 
Against you standing, age-long witnesses ! 

Trenk. And for this reason shall that minster 

fall! 
We come to strike a terror in mankind, 
To make war frightful, not to life alone, 
But to your souls ; your memories to maim, 
And hack your Holy places through and through. 
The war we bring is not of blood alone, 
No, but to desecrate all that is dear, 
O'erride your hearts, make ashes of your Faith'. ! 
Is it your holy dead that you invoke? 
These, I say, these we would appal and scare ! 
Old man, your speech has made you dry, come 

drink ! 

[Proffering a glass which the Abbe refuses. 

Abbe. On Force you call; take heed lest Force 
itself 



36 ARMAGEDDON 

Reel back on you — perhaps this very night! 

[Exit Abbe and Priests. 

Trenk [who is now wine-flushed, addressing 

Officers around him.] Now what you heard me 

tell that fool outright, 
Who came here whining for his bricks and mortar, 
Remember each of you, as you are soldiers, 
And as true children of the Fatherland: 
Lay well my words to heart and act on them ! 
Your business is to make war terrible, 
To strike alarm and anguish in the heart ! 
To batter a dreadful culture into man ! 
We come not hither but to slay and burn, 
But to make havoc in the very souls 
Of those whom we subdue. We come to grasp 
The world and nothing less; not Belgium, 
Not France, not England, though she stops us most, 
Until we wrest from her the very waves ; 
But these are not our goal, our final port, 
Though first through these must we hack our way : 



ARMAGEDDON 37 

World-Power is our furious journey's end; 
Therefore all Pity, Scruple, Truth discard; 
There is no truth but one: that we alone 
Are destined for the Lordship of the Earth ! 
Then come like wolves upon the villages, 
And visit wasted cities at sunset, 
Like the lean lion roaming Babylon! 
Be deaf then to the wail of women, blind 
To children's blood; the cause demands of you 
That you shall lie and burn, betray and snare! 
Remember Attila, grand ruthless Hun! 
Whom did he spare? What father or what wife? 
Dead-straight his track of fury through the Earth ; 
Make him example, imitate that rage ! 
And for the people, be they at your mercy : 
Lop from the wrist the hand that may offend 
And leave them nothing but their eyes to weep with, 
While hovers over them our boding bird, 
Advising from the clouds our dubious guns ! 
Make women a war-screen, the babe a shield 



38 ARMAGEDDON 

To interpose between you and the foe ! 
Be the Red Flag the red rag to the bull ! 
Let nothing live between you and your goal ! 

[He sits and all sit round the table drink- 
ing, and sing "Deutschland, Deutsch- 
land ueber Alles." When the song has 
ended, Trenk, raising his glass, cries: 
"To the Day!" They all raise their 
glasses with cries of "To the Day !" As 
they sit in act of drinking a turpinite 
shell bursts outside with a thudding 
sound. The stage is filled with fumes, 
which, as they disappear, disclose the 
whole party, each man rigid, as he was 
sitting in life, but motionless and dead. 



SCENE II 



AN ENGLISH ORCHARD 



Scene II. — An English Orchard. Sunset. Enter 
the widowed Lady Carteret and Ethel Mil- 
lard. The widow leans on the arm of the girl 
as they slowly pass towards a garden-seat be- 
neath an apple tree. Here they sit. 

Lady Carteret. How the days linger on, and still 

no news 

Of him, my boy ! 

Ethel. Of him, who is my love. 

Lady Carteret. Yes, yes, too often, Ethel, I 

forget 

In my deep yearning for the son I love, 

That for a lover you are trembling too. 

Ethel. And on one life two women's hearts are 

fixed. 

Lady Carteret. At times, I think, perhaps too 

much of self 

4i 



42 ARMAGEDDON 

Is in the thought; that ours the harder task is; 
The task of women in war-time to wait. 
Ethel. And we would do so much, yet we must 
wait. 
O, how one envies now that Maid of France, 
Who, riding all in steel, led armies on. 
After such glory did she feel the flame ! 
Lady Carteret. But then she had no child. 
Ethel. Nor any lover. 
Lady Carteret. O, who would grudge the 

triumph of brave men? 
Ethel. How glorious the onward rush, the cheer ! 
Lady Carteret. Splendid to stand against the 

leaden hail ! 
Ethel. Or in the mowed war-line to give no inch. 
Lady Carteret. How fine to grapple in the very 

heaven ! 
Ethel. Or go back for a friend through gaping 
death ! 



ARMAGEDDON 43 

Lady Carteret. And yet, and yet — to wait is 
harder still. 
There one forgets, the blood leaps in the vein ! 
They charge — retreat; they charge — or headlong 

fall. 
What time in all the roaring for a thought? 
Death beckons, yet with what a royal hand! 
The fury and the peril, that is theirs ; 
The stillness and the safety, that is ours. 
Yet He, who reads the hearts, knows which is 
worse. 
Ethel. The dull expectancy that finds no vent. 
Lady Carteret. The dread by night, the stifle 

through the day. 
Ethel. The uncertainty that's worse than any 

truth ! 
Lady Carteret. To go about the house, as though 

at ease. 
Ethel. The deep alarm, not outwardly betrayed. 



44 ARMAGEDDON 

Lady Carteret. She is a hero too who checks the 
tear! 

Ethel. Her victory is dumb, but victory still ! 

Lady Carteret. Yet, how serene ' the October 
evening shines ! 
How well these apples ripen to the fall ; 
Leisurely flushing perfect. 

Ethel. And yet, some, see, 
Strown by the gale o'ernight, fallen untimely! 

[Enter Charles Rowlands, who slowly 
approaches the garden~seat, bare- 
headed. 

Rowlands. Ladies, I bring you news, which I 
know you will bear with the courage which is asked 
from all of us in such a time as this. I thought you 
would rather hear it from me than see it by chance. 
I was your boy's tutor and afterwards his greatest 
friend. 

Lady Carteret. Is he wounded? 



ARMAGEDDON 45 

Rowlands. He was wounded, Lady Carteret 

Lady Carteret. You mean 

Rowlands. That he has met with a splendid 
death ; that he is to be envied by all of us who are 
compelled to stay behind. As soon as I hear more I 
will come and tell you. There can be nothing but 
what is glorious. I will not intrude on you any 
longer. Please send for me if you care to, I will 
come at once. 

Lady Carteret. Thank you. 

[Exit Rowlands. Ethel is shaking with 
sobs which she in vain tries to suppress. 
Lady Carteret remains dry-eyed. 

Lady Carteret. Let the tears come, child, they 
will bring relief; 
To me they will not come. 

Ethel. Ah, but forgive me. 
I should be helping you to bear and not 
Myself give way; and yet the future dashed 



46 ARMAGEDDON 

Suddenly from me ! Though I trembled, still 
From day to day, at least I never knew; 
Each dawn brought in for me a deeper dawn ; 
Each sunrise was a lighting of my life. 
Soft fires would hover round me in the air. 
The year waned, but the spring was in my soul ; 
I could not see the burning of my leaves. 
I stood tip-toe upon youth's primrose-bank; 
I blew warm kisses o'er the sea of time. 
The very fear, the fierce uncertainty, 
Heaven help me ! gave an edge to happiness ! 
Now all the colour has gone out of the world, 
And now there is no reason in existence — 
The Why is out of life and all is flat. 
Lady Carteret. You, you, a child that hath but 
played about, 
And lost a favourite toy, to whom the Earth 
Is still a nursery, what should you know 
Of grief that is too deep for those slight tears? 
Your sorrow is the future, mine the past; 



ARMAGEDDON 47 

You can but fret, while I forever pine. 
You — did you lie in pangs to bring him forth ? 
I knew the boy ere he was in the flesh, 
Even then we were companions through long nights. 
He was a thought, a hope — and now a dream. 
To you he was but as a summer dawn; 
What is your dawn beside my red sunset? 
O, I have laboured on that growing soul 
As patient as a sculptor on his marble; 
And for that holy childhood I made light 
Of all the distance between me and God. 
His young flaws and his frailties would strike fear 
Deep into me; how wistfully I watched him, 
Turning his lightest word this way and that ! 
His father dead my love was not divided, 
But full on him and sheer it spent itself. 
You — have you prayed for him, or if you prayed 
Was there no difference in your prayer and mine? 
The sigh of a girl, and a woman's agony! 
Child, when a wave long-gathered, and so vast, 



48 ARMAGEDDON 

Bursts on the rock, with what a moan at last 

On melancholy shingles it recedes! 

[Ethel buries her face in her hands. 

Ah, but forgive me; we are both so struck; 
Both women, and perhaps you understand, 
As women can at times, not having felt; 
Strangely our knowledge comes, our sympathy, 
And we are touched by that we never touched. 
Give me your arm; we'll go into the house 
And lose a little in the general grief 
Our sharp, particular pain, help and console — 
How many must there be, wretched as we are, 
Mothers and wives and daughters through the land ; 
One in a palace hurt, one in a cot. 
You are my daughter now ! 
Ethel. Lean on me, mother! 

[They go into the house. 



SCENE III 



OFFICE OF PRESS BUREAU, 
BERLIN 



Scene III. — The office of the German Press Bureau 
in Berlin. Herr Weiss seated at a table cen- 
tre, surrounded by papers, writing; various 
reporters seated at desk round him, writing 
rapidly. 

Weiss. [Banging fist on table and looking at 
watch.] Now then. Time ! You there — the report 
on the situation in London and the attitude of the 
Parliament and the people at the present moment, to 
be circulated this evening through the length and 
breadth of the Fatherland. The report on London — 
is it ready? 

[Again looks at watch. 

Reporter. [Rising.] It is ready, Herr Weiss. 

Weiss. Read ! 

Reporter. 'The panic in London, which broke 

51 



52 ARMAGEDDON 

out on the declaration of war with Germany shows 

no sign of abatement." 

Weiss. Good so ! Now — details ! 

Reporter. "Business has been for some time at a 
standstill. Even street-traffic is practically sus- 
pended, and in such congested thoroughfares as the 
Strand, for instance, one meets only a few foolhardy 
clerks, who in sheer dread of starvation hurry city- 
wards in fear and trembling. Actors out of work, 
and other desperate characters, hang about the 
street-corners, demanding food or money either with 
whining voices or blackmailing threats. At night 
London presents an incredible spectacle. It has, in 
fact, all the aspect of a closely-invested city. 

Weiss. [Banging fist on table.] Ah ! And so it is ! 

Reporter. "Not a sound is to be heard but from 
time to time the sullen and terrifying drone of our 
aeroplanes, or still more awful spectacle of a Zep- 
pelin, too high up to be scrutinized. Occasionally 
you may see the white faces of scared tradesmen 



ARMAGEDDON 53 

start up for a moment from various cellars, where 
the majority of Londoners now spend the long nights 
in a fever of apprehension." 

Weiss. Good! the general description — and no 
exaggeration. Now the scenes in Parliament and 
round the Royal Palace. 

Reporter. "In Parliament the general dismay is 
especially apparent. In the chamber, lighted only by 
candles for fear of attracting our airships, the mem- 
bers stealthily assemble. There have, however, been 
violent scenes. On Tuesday night the Leader of 
the Opposition engaged in personal conflict with the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and only released his 
grip of the latter's throat by the threat of the Chan- 
cellor to find no more money for the war. This had 
the effect for the moment of allaying party-differ- 
ences and uniting the government and opposition. 
The Chancellor has removed in a noiseless motor- 
car, with blinds down, to the Exchequer, suffering 
from shock. The Palace of Buckingham " 



54 ARMAGEDDON 

Weiss. Buckingham Palace. 

Reporter. Your pardon, Herr Direktor. 

[He takes pen and alters. 
"Buckingham Palace is surrounded by troops, who 
amount practically in numbers to an army, and the 
expeditionary force has been seriously depleted ow- 
ing to the necessity of defending the person of the 
King from the fury of his deceived subjects. The 
cries and curses of the mob are said to resemble 
nothing so much as the howling of wolves. It is said 
that the Royal Family has been removed secretly by 
night in a large warehouse-van to the shooting-box 
at Sandringham ; but of this there is as yet no con- 
firmation. The condition of abject alarm in the 
Metropolis obtains in the other cities of England, 
the inhabitants of which practically live under- 
ground." 

Weiss. I pass that — off with it at once ! 

[Exit Reporter. 



ARMAGEDDON 55 

Now Paris ! The attitude of the people to the gov- 
ernment. 

Reporter. "Paris is seething with insurrection and 
mutiny. No less than eight governments have been 
formed and dissolved since the outbreak of the war. 
The attitude of the Parisians towards the authorities 
recalls the worst days of the Revolution. Every- 
where are heard the cries of 'A bas la guerre!' 
'A bas Poincare V Officers are continually executed 
secretly for refusing to go to the front. Officers 
will not lead, soldiers will not obey. The fall of 
the city is hourly expected; its only defences are 
barriers of dead Frenchmen piled six and eight feet 
high." 

Weiss. The last statement — just a little too much 
perhaps. 

Reporter. [Crosses out statement.] "Piled three 
feet high." 

Weiss. Better ! 



56 ARMAGEDDON 

Reporter. "The citizens are eagerly anticipating 
the entry of our troops as the only salvation." 

Weiss. Well ! That will do. Let that go out at 

once. 

[Exit Reporter. 

Weiss. Now you ! The situation at Petrograd ! 

[Enter Officer carrying papers. 

Officer. Herr Weiss? 

[Weiss rises and bows. 

Officer. You are director of this Press Bureau, 

instituted by the Government? 

Weiss. I have that honour. 

Officer. I am sent from the Imperial Palace, 

[Weiss bows low. 
to ask you to account for a sentence in this report, 
circulated in America. You are aware of the im- 
portance of the good-will of America? 

Weiss. But of course! 

Officer. Then read that. 

Weiss. [Reading.] "The reports of recent victo- 



ARMAGEDDON 57 

ries in the East are now being received with caution 
in Berlin." 

[Excitedly.] Now who — which of you is respon- 
sible for this? 

Officer. Wait! That can be settled after. Do 
you realize the nature of your offence? 

Weiss. Ah! A mistake! 

Officer. Germany makes no mistakes; or if she 
does, she does not admit them. But do you realize 
what you have 

Weiss. I scarcely comprehend. 

Officer. Herr Weiss, you have published THE 
TRUTH ! 

Weiss. Ah, no, no! 

Officer. THE TRUTH ! It is stated here. Now 
I have to tell you from my Imperial Master, that 
you are hereby dismissed from your office. 

Weiss. Ah, do not say that ! 

Officer. My Imperial Master wishes to point out 
to you, that you were placed in a position of national 



58 ARMAGEDDON 

trust. Your business was fiction — for the good of 
the Fatherland — not fact. Your high office demanded 
of you unceasing vigilance in the avoidance of truth ; 
a ceaseless energy in fabrication. You have been 
found wanting, you go! 

Weiss. But it was not my oversight. It was a 
lapse of a subordinate — the lapse into truth ! 

Officer. For which you are responsible. 

Weiss. [Falling on his knees.] Ah, Captain ! Plead 
for me to the Emperor! Say — say — that I have 
served him well, with zeal, with industry, since the 
outbreak of the war. Ah, think yourself ! If some 
slight negligence of military duty had been charged 
against you — 

Officer. I should expect what I should get. 

Weiss. But place before your august Master my 
long, honourable career of ceaseless lies. I plead 
my stainless record of fabrication. Must this all 
be destroyed by a momentary lapse into truth, com- 



ARMAGEDDON 59 

mitted too by a subordinate, whom I trusted, alas, 

too well ? 

[He weeps. 

Pray him to give me another chance. There is 
against me no previous conviction of veracity. I 
defy all of you here to charge me with telling the 
truth on any single occasion. 

Chorus of Reporters. We acquit you of that 
charge, Herr Direktor. 

Weiss. You hear? They know; they who are in 
personal, hourly contact with me, by day, by night, 
that I am no truthmonger. That but in this instance 
I have never for one moment relaxed my ardour for 
the false, my pure passion for misstatement. Must 
all this be blotted out for one — what shall I say — ■ 
peccadillo of accuracy? I will strive, so tell the Em- 
peror, I will strive never to give way again, only 
give me one more chance to redeem myself and wipe 
out this blot ! 

Officer. I have no more to say ! 



60 ARMAGEDDON 

Weiss. Then plead to him not only on my behalf 
but on the behalf of others. I have a wife, and a 
son with a career before him. Must they too suffer ? 
They depend on my capacity for falsehood, they are, 
I tell you, dependent on my reputation for lies. 

Officer. I have given my instructions and I go. 

[Exit Officer. 

Weiss. Ah! All is lost! This is the supreme 
cruelty, that the labour of a life can be sacrificed 
to the mistake of a moment. Ah, my wife, who had 
such trust in me ! My Fritz, who was following so 
faithfully in my footsteps. And also my iron-cross — 
lost, lost, lost! 

[He falls on the floor while the Reporters 
gather sympathetically round him as the 
curtain falls. 



SCENE IV 



COLOGNE 



Scene IV. — Cologne, The chief room in the house 
of the burgomaster of Cologne. Elsa, his 
daughter, and Cloth ilde, a Belgian girl, are 
sitting either side of the table, on which a sin- 
gle candle between them is guttering down. 
The time is midnight. Both girls have an air 
of suppressed anxiety. 

Elsa. Listen! What sound is that? 
Clothilde. I can hear nothing. 

[Enter suddenly a German Officer. Both 
girls start up in terror. 

Officer. Ladies, I have only a moment. I warn 
you that the enemy-advance-guard, French, Belgian 
and English, may be here at any moment. This 
house will probably be entered first. 

[Exit Officer. 

63 



64 ARMAGEDDON 

Clothilde. Elsa! 

Elsa. Sh-sh ! — No, it is nothing. 

Clothilde. Elsa, what a friend you have been to 
me, to me, a Belgian girl, and you a German. When 
your army, retreating fast, dragged me here along 
with them across the frontier, starving, half-dead, 
you alone had pity on me, hid me away and saved 
me. 

Elsa. We are both women. 

Clothilde. Yes, and that is why I tremble now 
for you. 

Elsa. Forme? 

Clothilde. Yes; as they treated me, these in 
their turn will treat you. 

Elsa. What do you mean, Clothilde? 

Clothilde. [Taking Elsa's hand in her own.] 
I have not told you all, though something ; and now, 
when any moment they may come, I must speak as 
one woman to another. 

Elsa. Yes, quickly then, what is it? 



ARMAGEDDON 65 

Cloth ilde. It is horrible ! It was with us then 
as it will now be with you. When the invaders 
entered our town they laid it waste and they shot 
us down. Their captain quartered himself in my 
father's house. One night they were all drunk ; this 
captain then seized me and attempted— 

Elsa. Ah, I understand. 

Cloth ilde. [Hiding her face on Elsa's bosom.] 
And afterwards it had to be. 

Elsa. What? That? 

Cloth ilde. Yes, that; so that you took to your 
heart a girl of the people of your foes, who is more 
even than she appeared a victim. Now, do you see ? 
Do you not fear for yourself? "War," he said, "is 



war." 



Elsa. And we are part of the toll. 

[The candle goes out and the sound of mili- 
tary music is heard approaching. 
Clothilde. They are here ! Let me stand by you ! 
Elsa. No. I'll receive them alone. Clothilde, if 



66 ARMAGEDDON 

they should attempt on me what you say, I would 

find some means to escape it; if it were by death. 

[The sound of marching feet is heard ap- 
proaching. 

Clothilde. What then of your father upstairs, 
who is almost at death's door ? And this city, which 
you love so — if it rested with you alone to save 
them? 

Elsa. [Wildly.'] Oh, then. Oh, I cannot tell ! — 
They are coming; leave me. 

[Exit Clothilde. In the darkness the Eng- 
lish general Murdoch enters quietly 
with other officers. 

Murdoch. No light here ! [Sees Elsa standing 
by the table."] A woman! [To Elsa.] Bring us 
some light ! [She goes out.] Well, gentlemen, we 
have battered down the forts and we are first into 
the city, but I hardly think our French and Belgian 



ARMAGEDDON 67 

friends will be long behind us. Meanwhile, this is 
hardly a cheerful reception. 

[Re-enter Elsa with two candles which she 
sets on the table. 

Murdoch. And you, who are you? You are too 
dainty to be 

Elsa. I, Sir, am the daughter of the house. My 
father, the burgomaster, is old and at this moment 
ill. I am here to do my best. 

Murdoch. [To officers J] And a very charming 
hostess. 

Elsa. General, you are English ? 

Murdoch. I am. 

Elsa. May I make one request of you ? 

Murdoch. You may, but I cannot promise to 
grant it. 

Elsa. It is that I may speak to you for one 
moment alone. 

Murdoch. Oh, very well. Gentlemen, will you 
retire? [Exeunt officers. 



68 ARMAGEDDON 

Elsa. Sir, I want to plead with you for our city. 
For me — I have no mother left and for years this 
city has had for me the soul of a mother. 

Murdoch. I quite understand. But this decision 
does not rest with me alone ; it depends on my com- 
rades, the French and Belgian commanders, and they 
have bitter memories to avenge. 

Elsa. The Belgians, yes ; but, sir, will you at least 
do your utmost to save our ancient church ? 

Murdoch. [Taking candle and looking at her.] 
Child, you are very beautiful. 

Elsa. Oh? So they tell me. 

Murdoch. That contrast in colour in hair and 
eyes is not common, at least in my country. 

Elsa. No? I am glad that I please you so far, 
and I will do my utmost to be your hostess. I will 
spare no pains, no labour. There is nothing you can 
ask of me that I will not do. 

Murdoch. [Approaching her more closely.] 
Nothing ? 



ARMAGEDDON 69 

Elsa. Nothing you may ask. 

Murdoch. [Touching her hand.] Even — 

Elsa. [Recoiling.] But spare the city. 

Murdoch. [Recoiling also.] Oh, but this is a 
bargain ! God help me ! What am I doing ? I should 
be no better than they! The cause is too great; 
this is the devil's lure. Child, I give you my prom- 
ise to do my utmost for your city, but not on con- 
ditions, believe me, not on terms ! 

[The Marseillaise is heard without; enter 
Officer. 

Officer. The French, sir, and the Belgians. 1 
thought they would not be far behind us. 

Murdoch. Yes, they are too eager. [To Elsa.] 
Well, then, I will do my best for you, and you will 
do your best — for us. 

[Enter the French General Larrier and 
the Belgian General Leblanc. 



70 ARMAGEDDON 

Larrier. Ah, my dear comrade, we are not, I 
think, far behind you. 

[The three Generals greet one another. 

Murdoch. No indeed. 

Larrier. At last then we are in the German city. 

How good it is to tread this ground under foot ! Ah, 

but we have waited, how long! And the hour is 

come; the dream is realized! Here begins the Re« 

venge ! 

[He kisses his sword-hilt. 

Leblanc. And for us too. Our debt is the briefer, 
but the bitterer. 

Murdoch. Well, sir, is it decided what we do 
now? 

Larrier. For the moment I have no fresh instruc- 
tions; but surely there can be little doubt. 

Murdoch. Of what? How do you direct us ? 

Larrier. Gentlemen, I do not presume to direct, 
but 

Murdoch. What then? 



ARMAGEDDON 71 

Larrier. Can one ask ? As I entered these walls, 
I glanced up at that cathedral, and I said to myself : 
"Cologne for Rheims!" 

Leblanc. Or Louvain, or Malines ! Let this city 
taste now of that cup which we have drained to the 
dregs. 

Larrier. And from here onward, onward to 
Berlin ! 

Murdoch. Gentlemen, I understand well enough 
how hard it must be for you to restrain a fury so 
provoked and so long pent up, but — is it wise ? 

Larrier. Put it this way, sir: If you yourself 
had for many years been first well-nigh ruined, then 
continually sneered at and spat on by some personal 
enemy — well then — at last you have him by the 
throat, who had done all this to you; do you now 
relax your grip of him and say to yourself: "Ah, 
is it wise?" 

Leblanc. And for us, you may say our memories 



72 ARMAGEDDON 

are not so long, but think of what kind those memo- 
ries are! 

Murdoch. And still I do not like it, gentlemen. 

Larrier. But we, need I say, cannot move with- 
out you, sir. Once let some whisper of discord arise, 
and who shall say where it will end? 

Murdoch. Gentlemen, you do not quite under- 
stand my position. I see — Oh, of course not so 
strongly as you see— how shall I explain it? — some 
altogether larger issue at stake behind this very 
natural emotion. This makes me hesitate. 

Larrier. [With restrained emotion.] Remember, 
sir, that France for forty years, 
France from her highest to her humblest son, 
With all her women, mother, wife and child, 
All France from head to heel, from top to toe, 
Not every soldier: every citizen, 
Poet, mechanic, merchant, labourer, priest; 
That many now who toiled for it are dead, 
But left to us their industry of wrath. 



ARMAGEDDON 73 

We have been stung beyond all softer salve, 
Struck, but were helpless to give back the blow, 
Jeered at, but never might resent a jeer. 
At last the hour for which we yearned and ached! 
At last the spring for which we coiled and crouched ! 
At last the cup for which our lips are parched ! 
Now can you dash it from us ? Oh, 'tis vain ! 
This passion cannot sleep till it is purged. 
France through this war has fought a sullen fight ; 
Burrowing to victory on through warrens of war. 
Ah, but 'tis not her way; her splendid habit 
Is in the rush, the onset and assault; 
Here she has bided in a dreadful patience, 
In still tenacity her trenches held ; 
If she withdrew, she wrathfully withdrew, 
And a strange silence and a quiet kept, 
Putting an alien disposition on; 
But in retreat, in silence was a fury, 
Deliberate rage, with eyes upon the hour; 
Now who shall stay her ? Who shall stay a nation ? 



74 ARMAGEDDON 

All the accumulated avalanche? 
France makes no politician's counterstroke, 
No military white-wash of her lilies. 
This vengeance is the vengeance of a people ! 
Leblanc. He speaks for France, now I for Bel- 
gium, 
And with a sterner, fiercer emphasis. 
Sir, she is not — she was not, rather say — 
A country that provokes the rage of war, 
Of irritant ambition or swelling dream; 
A pastoral folk, content on its own plains, 
With towns in peaceful buzz of industry, 
Pictures unmatched, churches unparalleled 
She had, her halls were symphonies of stone; 
A young king ruled her, worthy of her love. 
Sudden the thunder of a trampling host 
Burst on her; yet might she have stood aside, 
Letting the war-lord's legions thunder through. 
Secure she might have stood, damnably safe; 
She chose. Right in his path she flung herself, 



ARMAGEDDON 75 

Unsure of succour, splendidly alone! 
A pigmy stayed the intolerable swarm 
Till giants could collect their tardy might. 
We gave you breathing-space — at what a price! 
Our towns are ashes, and our pastures rot; 
Our halls and our cathedrals, thundered down, 
Lie strown like lilies after hailing rage. 
It is a land haunted, not habited; 
Our Belgium is dead, unless one say, 
That so afflicted heart is beating still. 
We three have seen — it is our lot to see — 
The laid-out body of some friend we loved, 
Yet from that sight a comfort we could draw, 
So still the brow, so utterly at peace. 
But on this corse — this country now a corse — 
What signs of rage ! What slurs of violence ! 
Ere she gave up the ghost, how was she marred ! 
I stand for Belgium ; she asks vengeance here, 
And not here only, but where'er we pass ; 
With such a cry as may not be denied 



76 ARMAGEDDON 

For troops of young men, slaughtered in their 

strength, 
For the old man shot down at his own door. 
The girl polluted and the woman raped, 
For children that implore us without hands, 
And figures like disfeatured statues left. 
She asks it in the name of ruined beauty, 
And rolling curse of the remembering dead ! 

Murdoch. And still I do not like it, gentlemen. 
Ah, do not think that I too cannot feel; 
It needs not to be Belgian or French 
To have a horror on one's very flesh 
At that which has been done. But as you speak 
For France, and he for Belgium, so I 
Will state the case for England as I see it: 
She feels, I take it, that she stands at war, 
Not for a frontier-line in a dim land, 
No, nor to punish some rebellious tribe, 
That troubles her reared Empire momently, 
Yet for a frontier that itself is Freedom; 



ARMAGEDDON 77 

A grapple of the Earth, this way or that; 
I am no saint, but this I will say out: 
We are in arms for nothing but a cause. 
Therefore could England bring into the field 
The hardy brood of her sea-parted sons, 
Each man an athlete, clean of limb and life, 
Youth of the open-air, and stung with sun. 
Hence the still vigil of the Northern sea, 
But — look to this — not those alone she brings ; 
But dreaming India hither has she drawn, 
Her princes prodigal of pearl and gold. 
Why? — Not for France and not for Belgium, 
Not even for England, but a deeper Faith; 
Darkly they grapple to their souls this cause, 
Dimly they know that this, our cause, is just. 
Of such a heritage then, gentlemen, 
We three, I take it, are advanced trustees. 
Then let the tower of that cathedral fall, 
And with it comes to ground a towering Thought ! 
This issue is too large for your revenge; 



78 ARMAGEDDON 

Which of us would betray his country? Here 

Let us beware lest we betray the world. / 

Larrier. Sir, I admit the largeness of the issue. 
But England can more calmly measure it; 
The salt wave gives her leisure for ideas. 
Your land is not a waste, your churches stand, 
And still the business of an island hums. 
All day the spidery tradesman waits the fly, 
Then with his family to the cellar hies ; 
And still at football stands the crowd agape, 
And the nice patriot patrols the street ; 
Thus the wide view more easily you take. 

Leblanc. And you — you — if to you it had been 
told, 
How your own boy was butchered in his brightness, 
That stood between his sister and her shame; 
Or if, returning, you had seen, as I, 
Your young wife haggard gone, and muttering, 
Insane through very seeing of her eyes; 
If this came home to you, home to your heart, 



ARMAGEDDON 79 

How would you answer then — as you stand there? 
Murdoch. God help me, gentlemen, you drive me 
hard! 
Then I would answer as I answer now. 

[Enter an Officer with despatches. 
Officer. The English general, General Murdoch ? 
Murdoch. I am he. 
Officer. I am from head-quarters. 

[Presents papers. 
Murdoch. [Hastily perusing papers.] Well, this 
is all good — yes I see. This is clear enough. 
You will report that I understand my instructions, 
perfectly. Well ? Is there anything amiss that 
I should know ? 
Officer. General, I am charged — I wish I were 
not — with a personal message to you, so perhaps 
these gentlemen — 

Murdoch. O no, there can be nothing personal 
to me that they may not hear. 
Officer. General, your son — 



80 ARMAGEDDON 

Murdoch. Wounded? 

Officer. Yes, General. 

Murdoch. Well, we must all risk that. But 
badly? 

Officer. Mortally, sir. 

Murdoch. Dead? 

Officer. Yes, Sir. We found him in the Ger- 
man trenches, against which he had headed a charge, 
somewhat rashly. 

Murdoch. Then Harry is dead ? A moment, gen- 
tlemen, and we will resume. You will understand 
that the boy was more to me than just a son. We 
had grown to be friends; we read, we shot and 
fished together. — Now I am at your service. 

[To Officer.] It was kind of you to bring me 
this news straight; thank you. [Officer still 
stands,'] Is there anything more? 

Officer. There is something more, General. 

Murdoch. What can be worse than death? 



ARMAGEDDON 81 

Officer. When we found the body it had been 
mutilated. 

[Officer retires overcome with emotion. 

Murdoch. [Staggering back.] The fiends, the 
fiends ! 

Larrier. Now by your son ? 

Leblanc. The body of your son ! 

Murdoch. [Wildly.] Now lay Cologne in ashes! 

[Recovering himself. 
Pardon me, a decision must not be made under such 
stress. I cannot trust myself. Give me an hour, 
one hour of silence and solitude, and I will finally 
say yes or no. 

Larrier. But of course; and accept our deepest 

sympathies. 

[Exit Murdoch. 

Leblanc [To Larrier.] An hour then. 

[Exit. Larrier is left alone. A bugle call 
is heard outside. Larrier then throws 
cloak round him and sinks on a couch; 



82 ARMAGEDDON 

he sleeps. There is a pause; then the 
glittering vision of the spirit of Joan of 
Arc in armour appears at back. For a 
moment she watches the sleeping sol- 
dier. 
Larrier. [Slowly rising, awaking.'] What fra- 
grance stealing in upon my sleep 
Disturbs me? Is an angel in the house? 

[He rises dreamily, perceiving the armed 
figure falls on one knee. 
What art thou, like some holy picture seen 
In childhood long ago? — I know thee not, 
Yet is thy face and form familiar. 
Art thou a spirit come to me all-bright? 
Thou art in arms, and yet a maiden seemest. 
I dread thy strangeness yet I fear thee not. 
Spirit of Joan. O wearied son of France ! That 
waking fragrance 
So sweet thine eyes did open, came to thee 
From roses in the rain of paradise, 



ARMAGEDDON 83 

A far-off home. Though there we are in bliss, 
And quite uplifted above any tear, 
At times Earth touches us, however far, 
And brings a ruffle on the sea of glass. 
I see France suffer, though I may not weep. 
Know'st thou me not? Soldier, look on me well; 
I am that Joan that died in fire for France. 
See on this arm the brand of Rouen-flame; 
Behold the signs of burning and believe ! 

Larrier. Oh, armed maid, at last I know thee 
well. 

Spirit of Joan of Arc. I feel with pain the sharp 
contact with Earth, 
Where so I suffered, and I would be brief. 
Yet of my coming is the need so deep, 
That I endure a while the mortal touch. 
I come to say to thee : "Forego Revenge !" 

[Larrier starts. 
Looked for so long, so easy now to take. 
Let not my land in victory lose her soul ! 



84 ARMAGEDDON 

How barren is revenge ! What doth she show, 

When to Her dismal harvest She is come ? 

She sows the wilderness and reaps the waste. 

She hath in Her no quality of dew. 

Who hath more motive for revenge than J, 

After the ruin of beloved Rheims, 

Where singing boys did warble, pure as birds, 

Where in this armour I did crown a king ? 

And yet I come to tell thee : "Spare Cologne !" 

Larrier. Yet they, who so have wasted us and 
burned, 
Shall we not call them to some dire account ? 

Spirit of Joan. Listen ! The Powers of Darkness 
loosed this war; 
These hurl cathedrals down, women profane. 
Fear then, lest these shall tempt you to repay 
Till you at last they whelm in their own darkness. 
Nations at times, as men, may nobler stand, 
And finer in refusal than in act. 
Have I not seen the very stars in Heaven 



ARMAGEDDON 85 

Flash all together at some splendid "No" ? 
And what is all the injury they have wrought? 
What flame of body, or what woman's cry, 
To the injury they do to their own souls? 
Because they ruined Rheims, spare ye Cologne ! 
I can no more endure the touch of Earth; 
And the cold strangeness of familiar things; 
I grow half mortal in the mortal dawn. 

[She begins to fade. 
Go onward, onward, but forget revenge, 
For so forgetting you remember me ! 

[She fades. 
Larrier. [Rising and kissing the hilt of his 
sword.} And so forgetting, so will I remember. 
If this be dream, then it is well to dream. 
The fury under which I hastened here 
Is out of me. Thee, maiden, I obey. 
For if I fight for thee, I fight for France. 
Then stand secure Cologne ! I harm thee not ! 

[The cathedral clock chimes one. 



EPILOGUE 



IN HELL 



In Hell. — Scene as in Prologue. As curtain rises 
shadowy arms are uplifted in triumph. 

Voices of Shadows. All hail, O Satan, hail ! 

Attila. [At foot of throne.] All hail, O Satan! 
Is my task well done? ' 

Satan. Servant, well done. I greet thee, Attila ! 
So thick the bloody myriads of the dead 
Swarm hither, that I cease to welcome each 
Thronging newcomer, only from the throne 
I make an all-including, grave incline. 
Here Earth revenges the defeat in Heaven ! 
Force triumphs, Hell hath victory at last ! 

Attila. Master, I have made desolate the Earth 
And half the world have left a wilderness. 
Beauty have I thrown down; Rapine and Rape 
Stalk unimpeded through the ruined land. 
And yet — 

8 9 



X 



90 ARMAGEDDON 

Satan. What troubles thee, my servant, say ? 

Attila. I am aware in mid-rage and mid-havoc 
Of some strange influence, I know not what; 
A Power that is not Force — stronger than Force— 
And soft as summer overcoming me. 
No face, no form I see, unless at times 
The flitting vision of an armed maid ; 
I feel this presence, understand it not, 
But darkly, as a creature, am conscious of it. 
What Lord can so subdue the Lord of Huns ? 
I met not Him when first I scourged the Earth. 

Satan. [Rising."] This Power will I for evermore 
deny ; 
Hence to the Earth, more havoc waits thee there ! 

Attila. [Preparing to depart.] Master, I go — and 
yet I go perplexed. 

Satan. If this be truth we lose our very being. 
[A soft beam falls on him from above. 
What beam is this that searches us at last, 
And troubles Hell? Soft — yet it more afflicts me, 



ARMAGEDDON 91 

Than the fierce lightning that did scar my face, 
When I with all my angels fell from Heaven. 
I may not quail; but I begin to suffer 
In this beginning of some final light, 
In which I fear at last to be absorbed. 
Now all my being is in deep travail, 
Under a dreadful fall of gentleness, 
A flower-soft Influence omnipotent. — 
Is this our quiet end? Is this the pain 
Of dissolution, or some pang of birth? 
Awake ye, legions ! Tremble, and awake ! 
I call on you to rise and to resist 
This gentle doom, descending on us soft. 
Arm, arm ye for a conflict worse than war ! 
My Power, my Power, why art thou leaving me ? 

[He spreads out his arms as in crucifixion 
as the curtain descends.] 

Curtain 



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